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Cherry kerosene

It’s been a year since I wrote a poem and

I’m excited about the event;

the writing, the versing.

My meter’s grievous bent.

Words may no longer dazzle

like sunlight on water,

freshly corked champagne

or the eyes of only daughters.

But if gifted a causal notion

or some extemporaneous ruse

I can supply a blackbird on a wire

or some field mice, now nesting in my shoes.